Ponies Are Assholes

While watching a television show, which featured a veterinarian trying to castrate an extremely feisty pony, I said to my husband: 

"You know, everyone thinks ponies are these cute, sweet little child-sized horses, and they're totally not. Ponies are assholes."

As a person of short stature who spent many years riding, ponies were my curse. It didn't matter if there was a perfectly solid, sweet, sound horse available...we're gonna put Jackie on the pony, because the pony is Jackie-sized! I've ridden a lot of ponies over the years, but three in particular stood out. 

Champy: Champy was a student horse at the riding school I went to as a kid. She was an asshole, but she was my asshole. Even though she was stubborn, and had the bounciest trot I've ever encountered, and resisted gait changes at all costs, we kind of...got each other. Her being an asshole actually worked in my favor, because no one else liked her, and so the instructor usually put us together. 

Razzle: This was the blue roan nightmare I got at riding camp. Razzle was a Welsh pony/Thoroughbred cross. Those of you who are horsey people are facepalming right now. Believe me, over the years I've asked myself the same questions you're asking. First, how does such a creature come about? Because no intelligent person in their right mind would make that match on purpose. And second--what the hell was it doing at a
children's riding camp?

Razzle and I were paired up after I took my riding test and, apparently, aced it. She then spent the next week and a half actively trying to kill me. First, she'd try to unseat me. This she accomplished by:

-deliberately swerving to bash my knee into a tree and literally scrape my leg off her side

-throwing her weight sharply to either side during a gait change

-throwing her weight sharply to either side while we were going over a jump

I guess there was a reason I aced that riding test--she never managed to get me all the way off. There were a dozen times, though, that she came dangerously close. Mainly because, once she'd unseated me (the tree trick was especially successful), so I was hanging sideways with my knee in the saddle, clinging desperately to her mane, she'd call upon her Thoroughbred heritage and immediately accelerate to Mach Chicken. Weaving through about thirty of my fellow campers and their mounts to the front of the line once Razzle had taken off was about as close to a real-life Mario Kart experience as I ever want to get. All while trying to haul myself back into the saddle at a full gallop so I could get her back under control. Sounds like a summer full of fun for a twelve-year-old, doesn't it?

Rosie: Rosie was my ride at a trail guide job I held down for a few weeks in the summer of 1998. Once again, she was given to me because she was an asshole. All the mounts at this stable were actually mules, and surprise!

Rosie was a pony/donkey cross. She was way too wild for the tourists to ride. She thought she was too wild for me, too...but after Champy, and especially Razzle, I had her pretty well in hand within a few days. After that, we got along great...which was good, considering we spent most of our time chasing shrieking tourists through the woods, after their mules had spotted a patch of grass too good to pass up.

Ah, memories.